


Four-In-Hand

by LeaveMeInPeace



Series: Gaslight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asshole Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Dom Sherlock, Experienced Sherlock, F/M, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Minor Original Character(s), My First Smut, Oral Sex, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Poor Molly, Scarf Kink, Seductive Sherlock, Sexual Fantasy, Sexy Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spanking, Sub Molly, Tea, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeaveMeInPeace/pseuds/LeaveMeInPeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stolen microscope, a scarf, and the deep recesses of Molly Hooper's imagination lead to a steamy episode under newly-purchased Egyptian cotton sheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Scarf

Molly stood in the frame of her kitchen door, watching wordlessly as Sherlock huddled over the microscope. She enjoyed the view of the long column of his neck on display as it was usually hidden beneath his blue cashmere scarf. Tonight he was dressed as casually as Sherlock Holmes could be - in a crisp white button down shirt and black dress trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and one button ployingly undone.

Her gaze fell to the soft ebony curls that covered the nape of his neck. Her hand twitched mindlessly as she imagined the feel of them beneath her fingers.

"Are you making tea, Molly."

Clearly more a demand than anything resembling a question.

"Oh! Oh, yes. I'll just get the kettle on then, shall I?" she squeaked out, nearly caught out in her reverie.

The upcoming construction at Bart's was going to displace Molly from her laboratory for a few weeks, making it an impossibility for her to cater to Sherlock's every whim - she would be working with the pathologist interns and it just wouldn't be proper of her.

It was a wonder no one saw them sneaking out the King Henry VIII gate at St Bartholomew's - she with a bucket full of slides and him with a cardboard box marked ' _EXPENSIVE MICROSCOPE_ ' (which just so happened to contain a £9500 microscope).

Sherlock _was_ , after all, a true believer in hiding in plain sight.

The kettle whistled as she removed her finest bone china cups from the cupboard. She never had occasion to use them - but a visit by Sherlock was a _very_ good one indeed.

She steeped the tea as he continued his research, her eyes fixed on his long fingers as he twisted the knobs on the instrument.

"It's been three minutes, Molly. You know I can't stomach a bitter Earl Grey."

She fumbled with removing the lid on the teapot. She had to get her head on straight - she'd just finish serving him his tea and make her way to the sitting room. No good would come of things if she just sat here and stared at the man.

Pouring him his cup with requisite milk and sugar, her hand trembled slightly as she set it on the table next to him.

"Family heirloom?" he said lowly, his eyes darting briefly at the cup.

"Yes, my um, great gran's."

"Not the original owner."

He raised the teacup to his lips as she looked on with some disappointment.

"Oh? Mum always told me she was..."

"She couldn't have done. Unless she was born in the 19th Century, she must have been very fortunate at a white elephant sale. These are from the Albert Works - they should be in a museum. In fact, we shouldn't be drinking from them at all. The lead in them has to be toxic..."

"Oh... I'm sorry - I've never..."

Sherlock set his cup down and pushed it toward her with the back of his hand. "I'd try them out the next time the Antiques Roadshow is in town though. Probably worth a few bob..."

Molly couldn't help but giggle to herself as she dumped the contents down the sink, retrieving some less-deadly mugs from the dishwasher and pouring him a fresh cup.

"Thank you, Molly." She smiled at him, reveling in his rare appreciation.

"Almost as good as Mrs Hudson's," he added after taking a sip.

Molly was very good at hiding her indignation by now. 

"I'll just be in the sitting room if you need anything," she said quietly as he gave her a small nod.

She carried her tea into the next room, careful not to disturb Toby as he slept on her favourite chair. She'd take the settee. The last thing she wanted was for the cat to start winding his way round Sherlock's trouser legs - needless to say, the affection wasn't mutual.

Molly briefly considered turning on the telly, but she didn't want to disturb her guest. Instead she chose a book - something not terribly engaging - she was knackered and planned on having a bit of an early night tonight.

She read the first few pages as she sipped her tea, unable to get much further than that.

He was so very distracting.

In her flat, in the very next room, looking like... Sherlock.

Glancing over at the coat rack, she became fixated on his Belstaff, and moreso on that blue cashmere scarf. She rubbed her fingers together, imagining the feel of the soft wool between them. And oh, it would smell like him too, always tucked around that long ivory neck of his, hiding it from her view far too often.

Would he notice if she were to go over and touch it?

Who was she kidding? The man noticed everything.

_He was the self-crowned king of perception._

She could see him from her spot in the sitting room, and if he were to look up from the microscope he could see her, but he couldn't see the coat rack unless he chose that exact moment to pour another cup of tea.

_Since when did Sherlock pour his own tea?_

He'd never know what she was up to - she could be doing anything in her own foyer - he'd never suspect that she was over sniffing his scarf...

Molly leaned back on the settee, extending her arms above her head in an exaggerated stretch and a loud, dramatic yawn.

"Um, will you be all right on your own? I think I'm going to head to bed..."

Molly called to him as she stepped toward the foyer. No answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Did you hear me?" she inquired as she removed his scarf from the coat rack, taking in a deep whiff. It definitely smelled like him, as suspected.

_Just like English roses_ , she smiled to herself.

"Yes..." came his voice from the kitchen.

"So you did hear me?"

"Yes..."

"So can I just..." Molly heard his footsteps before she saw him.

She quickly tucked his scarf underneath her arm - thank goodness she chose to change into a baggy jumper when she got home.

"Yes..." His eyes narrowed as he peered round the corner at her. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Oh... I was just - just making sure the door was locked," she backpedalled.

"When have I ever been known to do something silly like forget to lock the door." He rolled his eyes.

"Well... Sherlock I..."

"Oh carry-on then, Molly. I'll just go back to my work..."

He looked at her, puzzled, before turning away.

"I will wake you if I need to, however," he called over his shoulder.

"Oh, that's quite alright Sherlock..."

Molly breathed a deep sigh of relief as Sherlock retreated to the kitchen. As she passed him on the way to her bedroom, she could still see him watching her from the corner of his eye.

As soon as she reached her door she shut it quickly and leaned against it, pulling the scarf from beneath her arm. She almost laughed out loud at what had just transpired.

Did she just steal a scarf from the world's only consulting detective... and think that she'd get away with it? She was merely borrowing it, she smiled to herself. 

Molly brought the scarf up to her nose and inhaled deeply once more. When they were working closely in the lab together she would often take a quiet deep breath behind him, just to bask in his scent. It comforted her somehow - she wished she could bottle it and use it whenever she wished.

She nuzzled the scarf and imagined that his lips were on hers.

_Oh, he would taste delightful._

What if she were to walk into the kitchen right now, stand behind him and run her hands down his forearms - elbow to fingertips, her small hands covering his as he adjusted the microscope... her lips against that alabaster neck... making him forget what he was trying to find...

The thought of it made her warm. Tossing the scarf on her bed, she began to disrobe. Jumper, trousers, fluffy purple socks... and soon she was wearing nothing but a pair of her favourite frilly knickers. She dressed quirkily yet conservatively, but on days like this when she knew she'd be seeing Sherlock, she always dared to wear knickers that were a bit on the naughty side - her own little secret.

Her mum always told her to make sure she was wearing proper knickers in case she was in an accident. Well, if she was ever in an accident around Sherlock, she knew that he'd be the first one to come to her aid...

She lay her head back on her pillow, pulling the scarf up and bunching it between her breasts. She dipped her chin to touch the soft cashmere, falling back into her fantasy.

_Back to the beginning. Let's start again..._

He'd be standing in her sitting room, wearing his Belstaff. Yes, of course he would.

And... his scarf. _This_ scarf. _This very one..._

She doubled it. Looped it around her neck. First one end through the loop... a twist.. then the other...

She rose to her knees briefly and caught her reflection in the mirror above the wardrobe, arranging the knot to her liking.

He didn’t tie his like this. Oh, no. Simple ends through the loop - a mundane action like tying a scarf should be _boring_ , even though he always managed to do so quite theatrically.

Still she imagined how it would fall against his chest, partially hidden beneath his Belstaff and tied in a four-in-hand. These were the sorts of things she fantasized about when he strode into the lab, making unreasonable demands that seemed rather sensible to her, after all.

Sherlock did not have to tie his scarf fancily. It would still look fetching on him if it were tied in a bow.

_Maybe not quite a bow, Molly. Be reasonable._ She tamped down his voice in her head.

This was her fantasy. How dare he put his two pennies in...

Molly pulled back her duvet cover and crawled beneath her Egyptian cotton sheets (which she bought on sale last week at Debenham’s after a particularly nasty day at Bart’s). She loved to come home from the morgue, shower off the stench of death - or even better, soak it away in a bubble bath - and tuck herself into her bed, her clean skin caressed by the fine fabric. Tonight, however, she could imagine someone else beneath the sheets with her...

She was getting ahead of herself. He was still standing in her sitting room, wearing that darned sexy coat of his.

She'd step up to him, and for once, she wouldn't be a bumbling idiot in front of the great Sherlock Holmes. Maybe she'd be wearing just her bra and knickers... or maybe - nothing at all.

_Yes_. She liked that. It would shock him.

She _really_ liked _that_.

"Sherlock," she whispered breathily against her pillow, biting her lip.

That would be exactly how she would say his name as she raised her hands to his shoulders, pushing his coat off of them until it fell pooled on her sitting room rug. Then her hands would run down his arms, and she'd slowly undo his cufflinks one by one, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

Oh, he was so very sexy, Molly thought as she pointed her toes and rubbed her feet together beneath the sheets. She brought her hands up to grasp the ends of his scarf as she ran her toe along her calf.

"Molly," he'd say in that low, resonant baritone. He wouldn't be demanding of her this time, he'd be asking her.

_Begging her._

She'd reach up and grab the ends of his scarf, pulling his lips down to meet hers in a prurient kiss before she began to unbutton his shirt. She'd run her hands along the expanse of his chest, his nipples pebbling under her feathery touch. She tugged harder on the cashmere beneath her fingers as she imagined it, her teeth sinking into the fabric to hold back the smallest of moans.

_He mustn't hear._

Molly reached over and lit the candle on her bedside table - she'd had her share of power cuts in this part of London, so she always kept a pillar and a book of matches next to her bed just in case. Flicking off the lamp she settled back under the covers.

She felt more fearless in the dark.

She allowed the soft wool of Sherlock's scarf to rub against her nipples as she rolled onto her back, arching into his imaginary touch as she pictured him above her. She'd be damned if she was about to work out the details of how she'd coax him into her room - she needed him there now.

Her hands flew to the knot in his scarf, imagining that she was removing it from his neck as his shirt fell loosely at his sides. She wound it around her wrist, her eyes adjusting to the soft candlelight in her room as she pressed her thighs together.

He'd need to be in control - but how much did he need? How much would he want?

"Oh God, Sherlock," she breathed, envisioning him winding his scarf around her wrists, pulling them above her head.

She'd let him take her, whichever way he chose. It wasn't the first time she'd fantasized about him in this bed, but it was the closest she'd ever been to him, something of his against her skin. There were many rumours about Sherlock, but the one she chose to believe was the one in which he was an incredible lover. He was so very good at everything else, she couldn't imagine it any other way.

Tugging tighter on his scarf she wound the ends up one of her arms, freeing the other one to dip down toward her knickers.

She ran her fingertips along her stomach, the tips daring to dart under the waistband of her knickers. She shifted slightly so that she was on her side, imagining how he would feel pressed up against her back, his lips trailing over her neck as he whispered with that sexy low baritone against her ear. 

It would be his hand dipping into her knickers, running along the soft hair. One of those long fingers would find its way down, pressing against her most sensitive spot. She could almost feel his hardness pushing at her back as she pushed her hips into her palm. Her teeth found the scarf again as she moaned into it, muffling her voice. 

"Oh God... oh... ohhhh Sherrrrr... oh yes..." She was rubbing herself now, her hips bucking into her touch as she replaced her hand with his in her fantasy. 

She began to imagine if the tables were turned, if she were to tie him up in her bed - that scarf wrapped around his wrists... or if he was blindfolded with it - her lips nipping gently at his chest... his stomach... down toward his cock... 

Would he submit to her? Allow her to make him quiver under her fingertips?  

No. Not him. That just wasn't his style. Molly cursed her imagination. Couldn't she just have a simple sexual fantasy about Sherlock Holmes which didn't involve so many questions? Couldn't she just imagine him slipping inside her and making her call his name?

Of course not. There were so many secrets that the man held, if the heavens were to shine down upon her and finally deposit him into her bed, it would only serve to leave her with more. She considered the alternative, and it was bloody awful. What if he was plain? Boring? Vanilla? Just like... Tom.

Molly flipped over on her back with a sigh, her hand no longer between her legs. Why did she have to fall for the most maddening man in London? She'd tried to move on, she really had. She drew his scarf to her chest once again, softly running the fingers of her less-naughty hand over the wool. She couldn't bear to lose him again.

After his fall, he'd come to her, but only for refuge for a few nights before disappearing longer than her hope for him had lasted. She was sure he was never coming back, and she tried to replace him with another man.

It wasn't to last. There was only one Sherlock Holmes. And he'd never be hers.

Molly clutched his scarf closely and lay her head on her pillow, letting his scent lull her softly to sleep before her tears had the chance to fall.

* * *

It was nearly half four in the morning when Sherlock quietly turned her doorknob, unannounced.

"Molly, have you seen my..." his voice became a whisper when he saw the familiar blue swathe tucked beneath her arm. 

He stepped quietly toward her bed. Gently coaxing his scarf away from her, he blew out the candle on her nightstand before leaving her flat without making a sound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fic. Should it be continued? You'll have to comment and let me know if it was any use first ;)
> 
> Inspired heavily by Massive Attack.
> 
> There's also a small dialogue nod to The Imitation Game - it will become more clear in November - can't wait for you all to see it!


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly wakes up in a panic.

Molly flew out of bed at about half six - completely disoriented and utterly horrified.

Her thoughts immediately flew to Sherlock's scarf. Panicking, she threw her duvet off the bed and started digging through the sheets. She ran to her bedroom door and stuck her ear against it, waiting to hear something - anything - from her kitchen.

"Sherlock?" she called softly, her voice nearly a whisper. "Sherlock, are you still here?"

Throwing on her pink fluffy dressing gown, she opened the door as quietly as she could and peeked out.

Her kitchen was empty, slides strewn about the table and a cup of cold, half drank tea sat where she'd served it to him earlier.

She tiptoed into her foyer. His Belstaff was gone.

_He knew._

He had to know his scarf was missing - and Molly Hooper knew that she'd be his prime suspect.

Rushing back to her bedroom, she continued to turn her bedding inside out looking for that familiar blue fabric. At least if she'd found it, she could try to claim he'd... dropped it somewhere?

She was a terrible liar. He'd never fall for it.

After going through every square inch of her bed, Molly stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror.  Her brown eyes grew wide.

"No.  He couldn't have.  He absolutely couldn't..."

Molly bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed tightly, shaking her head and pulling the elastic band from her knotted ponytail. 

"I'm an idiot..."  She felt like crying.  "An absolute _idiot_..."

Sherlock not only knew that she'd stolen his scarf, _he'd caught her with it._

She slumped back onto her bed in the puddle of sheets.

He'd not only caught her with it, but caught her in _bed_ with it.  Without a stitch on.

_What if he’d seen her bare arse?_

"God _damn_ it..." she cursed, throwing her duvet onto the floor.  

How would she ever face him again?  It was no secret to him that she fancied him - but she'd worked so hard to demonstrate to him that she'd moved on.  What on earth would he think after tonight?  There would be no doubt in his mind that she still harboured feelings for him after catching her in a compromising position with his neckwear.  All she wanted to do right now was drown herself in the bath.  

She couldn't even talk about this with her best friend Meena.  She considered Sherlock to be ' _the most insufferable prat she'd ever had the displeasure of meeting_ '.  Molly was sure she remembered that quote exactly.  Meena had more than encouraged her to lose sight of him - in fact she'd introduced Molly to Tom.

Tom.  She remembered Meena's excitement the night she'd set them up on a blind date.

"He wears nice coats... and he's quite tall - just your type, Molls!"

Until he opened his mouth.

Granted, he wasn't a sociopath - he was cute to look at, but he absolutely bored her to tears.  Why she'd ever agreed to marry him...

She could still smell Sherlock in her hair, having cuddled with his scarf.  It was driving her mad.  Throwing off her robe, Molly decided to shower and scrub him away.

 

*    *    *    *    *

 

Sherlock hung his scarf on the hook next to his coat after he returned to Baker Street.  He wrinkled his nose.  Strawberry shampoo from Boots.  Vanilla hand cream from Tesco. Practical Molly.  She always bought the store brand as she found it just as good as the expensive one.  

He removed the scarf from the hook and took another deep whiff.  Something else - toothpaste... 

 _My my, Molly._   She'd _bitten_ it. 

Another sniff.  

The sweet, slightly woody smell of galaxolide - a common ingredient in women's perfume.

She'd had the scarf against her pressure points.  Her neck - she'd tried it on - but she also likely had it against her wrists.  Bound...

He couldn't help but draw the scarf closer to his nose - he had to know everything.

There was no mistaking the musky scent he uncovered next.

My my _indeed_. She'd been _very_ naughty.

He hung it quickly back up, feeling his cheeks flush.  He knew how she felt about him, surely, but it wasn't like her to be so... bold.  

He didn't wish to think of such things at present.  Turning on his heel, he retreated to his bedroom and changed quickly into his pyjamas and dressing gown.  This was occasion to spend some quality time in his mind palace - he had a few things he needed to reorganize, and there was no time like the present.  That would unquestionably assist him in changing the subject.

Emerging from his room, he flopped dramatically down onto his leather sofa, his hands falling into their familiar steeple against his lips.

He closed his eyes with a deep sigh.  The first image his mind palace provided him was Molly, dressed in yellow at John's wedding, standing next to Tom.

Sherlock knew that Molly was unhappy, even then.

Changing the subject was proving to be much more difficult than he thought.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Chapter 2! Sorry I made you all wait so long. It's a bit short but it needs to be... some time for both of them to think. Thanks for the kudos/comments so far <3


	3. The Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some investigation of his own.

"Sherlock!" Molly yelped, greeted by his dark figure standing in the doorway of her bedroom.

"You can't... you can't just show up... unannounced..." 

She pulled her Egyptian cotton sheets up around her neck. She had fallen asleep in her knickers, her electric fireplace humming dutifully as it kept her perpetually cold bedroom toasty warm.

"How did you get in?" she squeaked, rather alarmed that he hadn't even texted her first.

"I have my ways," he responded cryptically. "Would you mind if I..." he suggested, gesturing to the empty spot at the end of her bed.

"Of course..."

Her response had barely come out of her mouth before he'd plunked himself down.

"What do you need, Sherlock?"

He turned toward her, wordlessly. He'd removed his coat, but his scarf was still tucked around his neck.

"You've tied it differently..." Molly noticed aloud. "In... a different knot. Why?"

"Well, you see Molly, it's very simple. Often people are attracted to those who dress as they do, have a similar fashion sense or sense of... _style_ ," he began, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "This is how you wear your scarf, Molly. Do you not find it attractive on me?"

"Of c-" Molly blurted out before stopping herself. "Sherlock I'm sorry about the other night and your scarf and... I'm sorry..."

She looked down at her hands clutching the duvet under her chin.

"You've ridded your flat of photographs of him, Molly. You're ready to move on. You're starting to feel bold again, desirable. Yet you're still lonely. You keep falling back into old patterns. And one of those patterns is me."

"Oh stop it. I'm... I'm over my f.. feelings for you "

"Are you now..."

He removed his scarf from his neck with a flourish, quickly winding it around his wrists.

He raised it to his mouth, his teeth coming out to bite it softly before he spoke, his voice deepening even further than she thought possible.

"I can't imagine you were thinking of _Tom_ when you borrowed this the other night." He spit out the name of her ex with disdain.

Molly's eyes widened, her toe inadvertently running against her foot under the covers. "How did you know that I... what I was doing..."

"Please, Molly," he said with a huff, dropping the soft cashmere onto the bed. "I may not fall prey to the need for frequent sexual fantasy, but I do have an abundantly clear understanding of the psychology behind it."

"Are you sure we should be having this conversation here?"

"What better place, Molly? This is, after all, the scene of the crime."

Molly was aghast. What the hell was he doing here? Was he taking the piss? Trying to make her feel guilty? Trying to seduce her?

"The one bit I'm not quite sure of, but I have developed a fairly good hypothesis..." he muttered, picking the scarf up again and winding it around his wrists slowly this time, "is whose wrists you were imagining these to be. Mine or yours? There's always something..."

Her response came out as a whisper.

"Both..."

"Mine? Tsk tsk," he chided her. "Delicious fantasy for you, surely, but wholly unrealistic. You may have envisioned it, but even you know that the latter is much more prudent..."

All Molly could do was stare at him, mouth agape as he went on.

"Given the dynamics of our relationship, I'm not surprised that you carry a strong desire to see me like... _that_. However... you'd much rather prefer to... to be... you would prefer to be..."

Now Sherlock was the one stuttering.

He cleared his throat before continuing.

"You do prefer to be... dominated. By me. Don't you, Molly Hooper?"

"I... I..."

"Don't you?"

"Y... yes."

"Those who don't know you well view you as weak. You stutter when I walk into Bart's, but what they fail to observe is that it's a behaviour you only exhibit around me. To the contrary, you wouldn't be a specialty registrar if you were. Your parents were killed in a car wreck in your early twenties. You benefitted from your inheritance, shared equally with your two siblings, and you were able to afford to further your medical education with honours in Histopathology at University College. You soon rose to the top of your class - it's what your father would have wanted - and landed a coveted spot at St Bartholomew's Department of Pathology. That is not the career path of a weak minded woman, Molly. Did I get any of that wrong?"

"No..."

Molly's voice wavered as she relaxed the iron grip she'd held on her sheets for the last minutes, allowing the duvet to fall just above her breasts. She dearly hoped that if Sherlock actually had a point in all this that he'd come to it soon.

"Good. From what I've read in sexual behaviour journals for... cases..." he persisted, waving his hand flippantly as he spoke, "is that a submissive female, when she perceives that she is in the presence of a dominant male to whom she has an attraction - will leave a few... hints. She will appear quiet... reserved. She will dress conservatively - no short skirts or plunging necklines; the less attention she draws to herself from other males the better. She will look down when he speaks to her, never interrupting, and she seeks his trust and protection above all things."

Molly remained awestruck. She never expected to hear such deductions spill from the mouth of her normally asexual consulting detective - after all, he looked downright shocked when she revealed that her and Tom were having 'quite a lot of sex'. Yet he went on.

"And the type of woman most likely to harbour submissive fantasies - and achieve the most pleasure from acting out said fantasies - are those who are normally strong and intelligent. They tire of keeping their guard up and wish to just let go under the tutelage of a dominant male. Now does that sound like the type of behaviour you exhibit around me, Molly?"

Sherlock picked up his scarf from the bed, awaiting Molly's reply. She gave him a once over as she took a deep breath, carefully weighing her next words. He was wearing her favourite aubergine shirt and his perfectly tailored black trousers. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, the ones below it threatening to follow as they always did, the very reason it was her favourite shirt. His curls revealed auburn highlights in the dim light of her tiny bedroom, and his greengreyblue eyes searched hers for an answer.

She couldn't find the words to tell him that he was absolutely correct - of course he was - and she wanted him to test out his theory. She often told herself that she would never be his experiment, but now with him here on the edge of her bed winding his scarf through his fingers, she had no desire to keep her own promise.

So instead of responding with absent words, she chose to show him, slowly pulling her duvet down over her breasts as she held his gaze. He sucked in a deep breath as his eyes flicked downward to take in the teasing view of her pert nipples.

"No... no, Molly," he exhaled, one hand moving quickly to cover her chest with the sheet. "You can't just give yourself to me like that."

"No?" she managed to squeak out, a deep blush covering her neck and shoulders in an instant.

"No. You have to let me _take_ you."

"Oh Mr. Holmes," she breathed, "please..."

"Sherlock, Molly. There will be none of that."

He moved closer to her on the bed, grasping both of her hands, the long fingers on one of his able to circle both of her wrists. He lifted them above her head, his other hand retrieving his scarf from where he'd left it on the bed earlier. He made short work of wrapping it around her wrists, the crisp, clean scent of his aftershave hitting her nose as she squirmed beneath him.

"This won't require any rules, Molly, you can just slip out of this knot anytime," he whispered in his low baritone, her eyes closing in a flutter as she allowed her mind to process that this was really happening - Sherlock Holmes himself was binding her wrists with his scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I left you all in a rotten spot! Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I hope to have the next chapter up within the week!


	4. The Duvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sherlock is a talkative asshole...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the S! M! U! T! babies! And sorry for the delay. I could have written any old filth, but it takes some inspiration to get my Shezza on...

When Sherlock was satisfied that her wrists were secure in a still-escapable knot, the corners of his lips turned up in a knowing smile.

_Virgin. Ha. Everyone should be so naïve._

Slowly, so very slowly, he pulled the duvet down until it rested low on her hips, but not quite low enough. Molly's breath caught as he gazed languidly at her breasts.

_Yes, I know I'd said they were too small, and they are, compared to the national average, but it matters not._

His thoughts were deafening, even now.

"Sherlock..." she hissed, her head tossing to the side. "What is this... I..."

"Shush now," he warned, pressing a single long finger to her lips before his mouth came down near her ear. His breath was hot as he whispered. "You know what _this_ is, Molly. Is it really that incomprehensible?"

"Well...y..."

"Don't answer that."

His smile had disappeared now as he pulled back to look at her, his eyes betraying his curiousity. He brushed a stray hair behind her ear and closed his eyes, his head dipping down to her neck. Grazing lightly over her skin, his mouth burned a hot trail down her throat, one of his hands coming to rest on her shoulder. The other touched the hollow of her neck, raising goose flesh on her skin where his breath had been seconds before.

He could feel her stiffen beneath him.

"Molly..."

All at once his mouth was on her nipple, the fabric of his suit jacket framing her hips.

"Sherlock! Oh!"

"Stop. Talking." Sherlock popped his head up, warning her in a commanding voice. "We may have to set some rules here after all, Molly. You're forgetting who is in charge here."

She opened her mouth to protest, but she was silenced instantly when he raised a hand to her lips, his thumb running across her bottom lip.

"I could... gag you, Molly..."

His face was only an inch from hers now. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes, he could feel the expectation of his kiss beneath his thumb. But it never came.

"Yet, I still want to hear you. Not your words, Molly. Your sighs..." he brought two fingers to press against her lips. "Your...moans."

He slid his fingers down her chin until they came to rest at her neck, her eyes popping open under his touch. Her pupils were already blown wide - and he knew just how he'd find her below the sheets.

Sherlock slowly inched the duvet down just over her navel, nipping at her skin as he went. When his lips touched the gentle rise of her belly, she let out a soft cry of anticipation that went straight between his legs.

"That's right, Molly. You positively _crave_ me asking things of you. So don't forget who is in charge here."

She nodded her head quickly.

"I want you to feel quite free," he said lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, "to make whichever... sounds... you need to make. But don't make them for my benefit - _I'll know_ \- you know I will. Make them because you _must_."

Molly closed her eyes again, her head falling back against the pillow. She wouldn't see his smirk, he thought smugly, as he dipped a single finger just under the waistband of her knickers.

 _Simple pink cotton_ ; he'd surprised her with his visit tonight. He knew she wore proper frilly things when she expected him. He would occasionally catch a glimpse of black lace or red satin when she wasn't wearing her lab coat and bent too far over a corpse in the morgue. She'd never suspect he'd be looking; although he knew she'd wanted him since he'd started with the riding crop - he'd scared her off long ago after that dreadful Christmas party. Wearing sexy knickers was just her way of keeping what little hope she had for a sexual relationship with him alive, tenuous as it was.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure when he'd started to entertain the thought himself, but it was sometime between his death and John's wedding. He'd only truly admitted to it himself after seeing her in the arms of a poor substitute for, well, him.

_Oh Tom, you glorious idiot._

He was running his finger along the band for nearly 90 seconds now, and although he'd said none of this out loud, he was aware that Molly could sense that he was deep in thought. A slight look of impatience had replaced her closed eyes and pillow writhing when he dared to look up again.

He decided to pin her to that pillow with his gaze, and his next words.

"Spread your legs."

Displaying such impetuous desire was usually not his method, but the unwanted deductions running around his head needed to cease.

He grabbed the top of the duvet, pulling it down to her ankles and flopping artlessly between her legs, his lanky limbs hanging partway off her small standard double. Her knees fell akimbo at his command, and this time he had to work to hide the smug, superior grin that threatened to paint his lips.

Sherlock made a small noise of satisfaction as he ran a thumb over the centre of her knickers.

"Hmm. Clearly you've been in this state since..." he paused to glance at his watch, "a mere three minutes after I arrived. My my, Molly. I hadn't even begun to explain our relationship to you by that point. I could undoubtedly observe that I was beginning to - I'll use the term  _turn you on_ \- but that happens quite regularly as you well know. Your pulse and breathing quicken; your blood pressure rises. You become flushed, especially on your chest and neck, due to the rapid dilation of your blood vessels. But you know all of this."

He began to rub his thumb up and down her cotton covered slit as he spoke. A small squeak escaped her mouth, one that he knew she'd held in for almost a minute. He knew by now that he could hold her under his spell with mere words. He knew Molly not only found him physically appealing, but she also took great gratification in listening to his his oft-intelligent dialogue. Even though she was a doctor of medicine, when he parroted back her collective knowledge like a university professor it made her weak in the knees.

"You hid quite well the moment you became truly aroused," he continued his audacious exchange, "the moment in which the blood vessels right... _here_... began to dilate."

His thumb began to make small circles over her centre. "You experienced increased blood flow in the walls of your vagina, which caused fluid to pass through them. This is the main source of lubrication, which makes you... _wet_."

He promptly removed his thumb at the word, popping the _t_ obnoxiously.

"Yet, how did I know when this process began?" he went on, seemingly to no one, examining the moisture on his skin as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "The cotton in your underthings can absorb up to 27 times its weight in liquid water - but your... _secretions_... are a bit more viscous. Ergo, given the absorbency rate of the fabric versus the state of saturation I now find it in - I'll _very kindly_ skip the calculations - three minutes, Molly. _Three_."

Molly could take no more of Sherlock's science lesson, arching her back and twisting against the restraint of his scarf.

"Uh, uh," he tutted, "you mustn't be impatient. Look how _very_ patient I'm being."

Sherlock took the opportunity to slide up her body, the hard line of his erection making itself known against her thigh.

"You can tell me if you want me to stop. Although I don't intend to inflict anything but pleasure on you tonight. And there will..." he paused, tugging at the knot that bound her wrists, "...be other nights, Molly. Of _that_ I am certain."

A small smile formed on her lips before he ran his thumb - yes _, that_ thumb - along her bottom lip, silencing any words of _sentiment_ that threatened to escape. Molly took it eagerly into her mouth; Sherlock was sure she had to have felt his cock twitch against her when she did.

"How do you taste, Molly?"

His words came out a bit more gruffly than he'd intended - was she honestly attempting to outplay the great Sherlock Holmes at his own game?

Her smile widened as she raised a single eyebrow, amused at the way one of his chocolate curls had fallen over his eye. He was absolutely maddening, and he knew it.

"Don't answer that either. You know I have every intention of finding out..."

A gasp escaped her as he popped his thumb from her lips, his lithe body slinking down hers like a cat. He encircled her ankles with his hands, sliding her feet up toward her hips and spreading her obscenely before him. This allowed him to rest fully on the foot of her bed, his bluegreengrey eyes peeking at her over her stomach.

"I've made _so_ many deductions, Molly," Sherlock whispered, settling his elbows on the insides of her ankles.  "About the types of men you've been with... the noises you make when you come... how you like to be... scolded..."

Molly bit her lip, staring down at him and wiggling her feet against his arms.  She had to be positively aching for him by now.

"But I'll test my theories later.  Right now I need to taste you..."

He moved up the bed between her legs and blew a hot breath on her belly before he began to gently suck on her skin. Molly moaned softly and arched her back slightly, but he stilled her hips with his hands and pressed her down onto the bed.

“Hold still for me,” he whispered in the low voice that he knew she loved.

He shifted on the bed and ran his fingers along the inside of one of her thighs. She writhed beneath him and he subdued her again with his other hand, repeating his request for her to keep still. Molly let out a whimper when his cheek replaced the contact of his fingertips and he touched his lips gently to the inside of her knee. He began to place open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh, allowing his teeth to graze against her flesh.

“Ohhh... Shhh... Sherl...” she sighed as he nipped lightly at her soft skin.  She was largely incoherent, but he would have to be an idiot to not recognize his name in the midst of her noises of pleasure.

Soon her voice turned into a low moan as he moved to taste her through her knickers, his hands wrapping over the tops of her thighs to keep her from moving too much.

"Oh my - you taste nothing like I imagined," his voice muffled between her legs. "You taste... much better than that. Oh fuck, Molly... off with these damned things..."

Without any further ceremony he sat up straight on the bed, pulling her ankles together and tugging down her knickers - tossing them carelessly across her bedroom floor.

"Ah," Sherlock smiled as he finally shirked off his suit jacket, tossing it the way of Molly's underpants.

He began to remove his cufflinks and roll up his sleeves, not looking away from between her legs until he was finished.

"Could use a bit of a trim..." he observed quickly.

Molly's mouth fell open in disgust and she shut her eyes tightly in embarrassment when he looked up at her.

"Oh, there's no need for that. The epidemic shaving of female pubic hair is such a ridiculous construct. I find it slightly repulsive to be fooled somehow into believing I'm romancing a... _schoolgirl_. I much prefer natural grooming. Maybe it didn't quite come out that way... at first..."

Sherlock bit his lip and looked down at Molly, her nude form displayed so beautifully before him.

She was quite right.

_He did always say such horrible things..._

"I'm... I'm sorry, Molly. Forgive me?"

A quick nod was returned, her eyes still squeezed shut. He wasn't quite sure she'd fully accepted his apology - until her legs fell open again and she wiggled her bum in a very sincere invitation.

"Very well... I'll have to make it up to you..."

It only took about a minute for the room to fill with Molly's moans and sighs. He needed her to know that his acerbic tongue had other uses. He touched and tasted, probed and sucked, his long fingers joining in to spread her open beneath him.

"Oh! Sherlock! Oh! Oh... ohhhhh!"

Molly was once again a quivering mess, struggling beneath him as he held her firmly against the mattress.

His cock was so hard now that it took everything he had not to undo his trousers and take her right then and there. But tonight wasn't about him - no, not at all. He already knew that she was willing to follow his instructions, but if he wanted her to do all the things that he'd imagined doing with her - she'd have to trust him too.

"Come for me, Molly," he commanded, pushing two long fingers into her and stroking them deeply inside - his mouth closing around her tender nub as he took great satisfaction in hearing her come undone.

"Sherrrrrlockkkk... Oh! Yes... oh fuck yessssssss..."

Molly flailed so roughly as her orgasm took her that she pulled her wrists free from his knot; his scarf lay next to her on the pillow when he crawled up beside her.

Her breath was still coming out in hard gasps, tears forming in her eyes as she gripped his hair, her fingers weaving through his ebony curls.

"I take it my apology was... satisfactory?" he whispered deeply in her ear as he pulled a strand of hair from her eyes, slightly damp from her sweat.

"Yes," she returned, looking at him through hooded eyes, "oh goodness, yes..."

He collected his scarf and suit jacket in a hurry. He knew that it wasn't quite appropriate to leave his submissive so soon after sexual contact - but this was a very light session, and he knew she was too deeply rooted in post-orgasmic bliss to protest.

"Good. I'm sorry I have to leave so soon, but I have a £9500 microscope to return." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I* am absolutely maddening, and I know it. More to come!


	5. The Shopping Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molls goes on a harrowing trip to Harrods... only the best for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't seen or read the book/movie at ALL and just found out the female lead in "50 Shades of Grey" is named Anastasia. Hahhaha! I did NOT name my shop clerk after her... she's actually named after the very glamourous wife of a friend of mine who's in a band. 
> 
> Still laughing! 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy ;)

Molly woke to the chime of a text message. She started up in her bed, her eyes puffy with sleep and her sheets wrapped around her legs. She was naked. And she'd had the most incredible dream...

She blinked her eyes slowly and shook her head.

Closing her eyes she could see Sherlock, looking up at her from between her legs, his eyes rife with desire, his lips wet with her...

_Holy Christ. Sherlock Holmes went down on her last night. And he'd given her a most memorable orgasm at that._

Taking a deep breath, she retrieved her phone from the nightstand.

_Baker Street. 7PM. Come alone. -SH_

Her phone chimed again in her hand.

_And no. That was not innuendo. -SH_

Her stomach did a small flip. Before she'd had the chance to doubt his intentions, he'd silenced her thoughts with his invitation. She smiled to herself. He'd wanted to see her. Again. _Alone_.

She leapt from her bed and immediately ransacked her wardrobe. None of this would do - not at all. None of these clothes were nice enough for her consulting detective, so there was only one solution.

A trip to Harrods was in order.

She hated shopping for herself and she'd likely blow a good bit of a paycheque if she'd wandered into the wrong section, but this wasn't for her, was it?

****

When she chose the yellow dress she'd worn to John's wedding she'd been in far too much of a rush. 

"The sales girls are _so_ much better at Harrods", Meena had chirped at her when she stood hating it in the mirror the morning of the wedding. "I told you not to go to Selfridge's."

Molly remembered flipping through an advertisement for Harrods new summer dress collection on a break in the caf during a particularly nasty autopsy. She'd fallen in love with this cute Alice + Olivia patterned pouf dress... it was spring-like and nearly out of season, but it had the prettiest full white skirt embellished with gorgeous cherries - maybe she'd be able to buy it on a markdown.

What was she playing at? _Sherlock would hate it._

Molly was happy to be off work today, and she was quite thankful it was a Wednesday. Although Harrods was always verging on mental, she wouldn't dare venture into the place at the weekend. It took her two tube lines and a bus to get there - sometimes she cursed living in Greenwich.

Walking in, she was immediately assaulted by beautiful salesgirls holding all manners of perfumes.

"Sorry," she said meekly. They always made her feel so guilty, but she'd just bought a lovely bottle for herself after breaking up with Tom.

She made her way up the escalator to the first floor, having spent time researching the layout of the store while on the bus. She always remembered her father's words to her mum whenever she dragged him shopping.

_In... out... nobody gets hurt..._

Right away, another sales girl was at her side.

"Hello... my name is Anastasia. May I be of assistance or are you just looking round?"

She had cat-eyes and slick, short dark hair and was wearing an impeccable white sheath dress with high mod-inspired boots. She almost, Molly hated to say, reminded her of that woman on the autopsy table that Sherlock recognised by _not her face_. But she had an instantly friendly manner about her - and, judging by her attire, an incredible sense of style.

Molly decided to go for it and let a complete stranger help her choose her outfit.

"Um... yes. I'm looking for... I don't know... maybe a cocktail dress? Nothing too... revealing. Maybe something one could wear during the day as well?

"Hmm. Special occasion?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Oh. Someone to impress?"

"I suppose you could say that... yes."

Anastasia smiled. "Well, just follow me - we will find something he... or she... will love on you."

"Yes... It's a he. But lovely of you not to assume... I'll take that as a compliment."

"Never can these days. My girlfriend would hate me for it."

Molly giggled. This was going to be a bit fun after all.

"So... tell me about him! What's he like?"

"He's very... particular. I guess you could say... rather traditional."

"Ah. All right. So we're after a classic look. But I'd love to see you in something a bit daring. Not too much, just give him a bit of a surprise," she winked.

"I'm not sure he'd be impressed..." Molly returned, blushing a bit. Last time she'd worn something daring, he'd insulted her in front of an entire Christmas party and she'd gone home crying on the Jubilee line...

"Just trust me. Let me get looking a bit and you can tell me if I'm going in the wrong direction, good?"

"Oh, okay then," Molly gave in. Their relationship had changed a bit since then.

"So you're worried about wearing something daring. May I ask why? I think you have a lovely figure for it, if you don't mind my saying..."

Anastasia held up a beautiful multi-coloured floral jacquard dress with a low, mesh-panelled V-back. She loved it, but she thought it a bit sultry for a trip to Baker Street.

"I think he... doesn't really like me on... display."

"Ah. I see. So no low backs... and certainly no low fronts."

"Preferably no."

"I hope you do have some time though... If we're to find the perfect dress, I don't want to hurry you unless you're pressed for time."

"Oh, yes. I'm not meeting him until seven."

"Is he taking you out? Dinner and a show maybe?"

"Well... no. He didn't really say. Might just be a quiet night in, but I have to be ready for anything with him."

"Mmm. Sounds a bit... dangerous. But I'm glad you have some time - I think we have a bit of shopping to do in addition to the dress."

****

After nearly an hour of trying various dresses - her and Anastasia settled on a cream coloured swirled lace dress with red detailing and a classic scalloped hem. It was very form-fitting, but they both agreed Molly had the figure for it. She already had a nice pair of red heels at home that would match as well. Admittedly most of the dresses were lovely but Molly was trying to stick to somewhat of a budget - that she had a matching pair of shoes made her final decision easy. Anastasia had assured her it exuded class, even if the back came down just above the line of her bra.

"We're not done," she winked. "What are you wearing underneath?"

"Oh... I never thought that far ahead."

"You said he doesn't like you to be on display. I understand completely. He doesn't want you on display to other men. That hardly means he doesn't want you on display for _him_ though, does it?"

Molly shook her head wordlessly, thinking back to the look in his eyes when he'd first taken in her naked form, her wrists bound above her head, her body on full show.

She clearly didn't know the first thing about truly sexy lingerie when Anastasia led her over to their _Agent Provocateur_ collection _._ Simple frilly knickers these were not.

Throwing caution to the wind, she allowed the young woman to pick out a particularly alluring bra and knickers set. Molly felt that she'd been right about most of Sherlock's tastes so far - why wouldn't she be right about this?

"Darling... are you into... play?" Anastasia made another educated guess and quirked an eyebrow as she added the lacy underthings to Molly's order at the register.

"Yes... I mean no... I mean...well not yet..."

"Hmm... I see. Well, we have some very lovely stock if you're just starting out... Walk with me."

There was something about the sales clerk that made Molly comfortable enough to follow. She was led to a discreet wall of interesting accessories - feathered masks, suspender belts, cuffs and chokers.

Anastasia's attention, however, was on the drawers beneath the display.

She removed a fine leather paddle with elegantly studded crystals on the reverse. Molly closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Sherlock's strong forearms flexing as he brought the leather down to meet her bottom.

_Snap_.

Anastasia brought the paddle down hard against her palm.

"We just got this one in last week," she whispered like she was telling a secret. "A bit dear though - three ninety five, I'm afraid. He'd have to have a perfect arse for that one," she giggled.

Molly smiled to herself. She was quite sure that Sherlock had a perfect arse - but she wouldn't be using it on him anyway.

"Maybe something like this is more in order..."

She pulled a long, thin, pink box from the drawer and handed it to Molly.

"Go on... see what you think..."

She removed the lid to reveal a delicate black leather riding-crop-styled whip, with an exquisitely jewelled handle.

"It's... it's perfect," Molly gaped, her thoughts fluttering back to Sherlock's spectacle in the observation autopsy room one particular Sunday afternoon. "But like I said before... we're not quite ready for that yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun shopping for Molly on the Harrods website. All of the dresses described are real, and the Alice + Olivia collection is as well. Harrods carries the line - it's all very Molly Hooper. 
> 
> And yes, there is an Agent Provocateur shop inside... their collection was VERY inspiring to say the least... go [take a look](http://www.agentprovocateur.com) and see if you can figure out what Anastasia chose for Molly.
> 
> The perfect cherry "Molly dress"  
> [](http://imgur.com/fhKs102)
> 
> Anastasia's first choice  
> [](http://imgur.com/HETht6i)
> 
> Final choice  
> [](http://imgur.com/Vp5iizx)


	6. The Big Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation turns into a revelation for Molly.

"Ah. You bought a new dress."

Molly stood in Sherlock's foyer, standing next to Mrs. Hudson as he peeked at them from the landing.

"How did you..."

"It's still got the sales tag on the hem."

He turned on his heel and went back into his flat, leaving her standing there, dumbfounded.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson hummed. "I think you look lovely, dear."

Molly was ready to burst. Her hand tightened on the bottle of wine hidden in her handbag. She was going to give it to her host, but she suddenly imagined herself home alone on her settee in her lovely dress, drinking it out of the bottle with Toby curled at her feet.

"Well... are you coming up or not, Molly?" she heard a familiar baritone call down from the top of the stairs. Incensed, she began to climb the seventeen steps to 221B.

Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together and retreated to her flat, grinning all the while.

Arriving at Sherlock's ajar door, she took in the sight of him still in his dressing gown, grey tee and lounge trousers. His hair was in all directions, and he looked like he'd just crawled out of bed. Or at the very least, deep thought.

"Nearly three hundred fifty quid, definitely not an impulse buy. And from Harrods. It was a destination purchase - you went there on a mission..."

Suddenly, Molly felt very self conscious as she hugged her white cardigan sweater into her shoulders. She had yet to fully reveal her dress to Sherlock, and at this rate she wished she'd never even bought it.

"I... I just didn't know if we were...maybe going somewhere?" she answered meekly. "But... we could just stay in... I've brought some wine - it's red... it's French... I'm not sure if you like red, or white, or if you even drink at all but I just thought maybe if you would like to possibly just sit and talk and..."

"Oh.... a 2009 Beaujolais. Well done, Molly," he said, interrupting her rambling as he snatched the bottle from her and went into the kitchen. He moved a dusty box of chemistry flasks from his counter and set the wine down, looking back as she stood moulded to the spot in front of the door. At least she'd done something to please him.

He rummaged through another box under the kitchen window, pulling out two slightly dusty but surprisingly clean long stemmed crystal wine glasses.

"They were a wedding gift."

Molly nearly choked.

"A what? You... I mean you... were...are?! Sherlock... I never..."

"Oh do settle down. The bride and groom were murdered before I had the chance to even have them gift-wrapped. Dear shame, that one... I never did solve it. Now, come on in Molly. And close that door. I can't stand the racket when Mrs. Hudson is watching '8 Out Of 10 Cats'. Her laugh is even worse than Jimmy bloody Carr..."

Molly closed the door silently, and stepped into Sherlock's sitting room as he popped the cork. She watched as he poured a small sample of the wine in his glass, swirling it around and holding it up to the light. Of course he proved to be expert in wine as well. Nervously, she watched as he took the first sip. She'd hoped the woman at the wine shop knew what she was talking about - for forty-three pounds a bottle, she'd better have done...

"Ah... beautiful, Molly. Did you know that Beaujolais is one of only two wine regions in France where the grapes must, by law, be picked by hand, the other being Champagne? No... of course you didn't. But this really is a lovely vintage. The 2009 season was beautifully warm and dry in Burgundy... and the tannins... Oh, never mind. You have absolutely no use for this knowledge - I don't imagine you buying the good wine for drinking at home alone reading Victorian romance novels. Would you like a glass?"

"Yes, I think I rather would..."

She currently wanted to just drink straight from the bottle.

Sherlock poured them each a glass and handed her one as he swished past, the tie on his robe hanging off kilter and nearly dragging on the floor. Her overwhelming desire to observe him and everything about him drove her to ultimate distraction. He flopped into his chair and made a theatrical twist with one of his fingers.

"Well, let's see this frock, Molly. I know that you purchased it a few hours after receiving my text, solely to impress me..."

He was a dick. An absolutely shameless but completely correct dick.

"Do you have to say absolutely everything out loud that comes into that massive brain of yours?"

"Yes. I think people deserve to hear it. Now let's see it without that dreadful jumper overtop."

Molly set her wine down on his mantlepiece, shrugged off her cardigan and took it to the coat rack. She accidentally on-purpose draped it over his Belstaff, wanting his scent to transfer. When did she become a mammal in heat? Approximately twenty-four hours ago, best guess.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his fingers steepling beneath his lips as he gazed at her. He nodded slightly, again motioning for her to turn around.

"Why do you feel like this in front of me, Molly?"

"I... I don't know.... I..."

She stuttered and blinked, turning around quickly to avoid meeting his eyes - but mostly to avoid blurting out the stinging memory of the last time she'd stood in this room in a dress she'd chosen just for him.

"It's unbecoming. You need to stop."

She heard him shift in his chair, his voice becoming louder with the next words.

"You look... very... _pulchritudinous_."

"Sherlock... what does that even... mean?!"

"It's a positively ludicrous word," he said lowly. Molly jumped slightly as his hands came to rest on her bare shoulders. "I've always wanted to use it in a sentence but I've never had occasion. It means... beautiful."

Molly closed her eyes, letting out a breath as he slipped one finger under the fabric. Trust Sherlock to confess his feelings by using a big word from his massive vocabulary.

"And Molly. My scarf. Now."

Wordlessly, she plucked his scarf from the rack and turned to him. Just touching it made her stomach flip in a way that she quite liked.

"Thank you," he replied clippedly, snatching it quickly from her hands.

He retreated to his chair, sitting down promptly and staring into her.

"Come here. I'd like to play a game..."

Molly gulped. "Sherlock I don't know if... I'm not sure that I..."

She wanted to kick herself for sounding such an idiot... blubbering her way through this moment. The one sip of wine she tasted had done nothing to quell her nerves.

"Molly... do be quiet. Just stop talking. Stop thinking. Stop. Just stop it all. _Come_ _here_."

Her mouth closed abruptly as she moved toward him. He spread his legs apart and shifted back in his chair.

"Closer."

He twisted his scarf in his hands as she advanced, stopping right before him.

"Let's consider this an... experiment of sorts."

"Sherlock I can't be an experiment to you... I just..."

"Molly Hooper. Oh DO shut up. Turn round and sit down... or just walk out the door and we will never speak of this again. Decide. Decide now..."

Against her better judgement she turned her back to him and took another step backward, the back of her knees nearly touching his.

"Here. Sit down."

One of his hands moved up to her hip, guiding her back. He pulled her down onto him, settling her bottom just over his knees.

"Sher..."

"Molly... stop. Just cease speaking. Answer one question. Do you trust me?"

"Yes. But Sherlock I..."

"That's the last words I'll hear of it. Molly, if you're truly going to submit... now is the time to stop talking..."

Molly nodded her head quickly. How quickly she fell under his spell when he touched her, his hand moving to brush her hair from her shoulder blades, his fingers trailing heat against her skin. He worked at the knot of the ribbon of her ponytail, loosening it before sliding it off and dropping it into her hand.

She felt him slide his scarf over her shoulder, bringing it up over her chin and back again, fashioning a loose gag over her mouth and pulling the ends back under her hair.

"Bite down," he whispered, and she was obeying his velvet tones quicker much quicker than she'd planned. "I'm not going to tie it tightly. This is more symbolism than anything. I want to give you the illusion that you can't speak. You can't second guess me, Molly. And most importantly, you can't second guess yourself or doubt that you should be here. Doubt that we... should be... here. Nod if this is okay..."

Molly nodded again and he began to tie a loose knot at the back of her head. She felt strangely freed by this new denial. What if she didn't need to struggle to find words in front of him for the sake of conversation? What if tonight she could just... _be_?

"Now I'll talk. All you have to do is listen... and keep your eyes forward."

She felt his hands drop from the knot and move quickly to the zip at the back of her dress.

"Let's see what you really bought for me, Molly."

He pulled down the zipper agonisingly slowly as she squirmed on his lap.

"Uh uh... stay right where you are." He put a warning hand on the small of her back, keeping her bottom settled over his knees. It wasn't the most comfortable of perches, but she wasn't about to complain.

"Oh, what's this? Leavers lace. Lovely. Very lovely indeed."

Sherlock's fingers ran up the straps of Molly's new bra. By the slight hitch in his usually unwavering voice, it was apparent that he more than liked it.

"Let's get a proper look at it..."

He eased one shoulder of her dress down and then the other, letting it fall to her waist.

His hands were covering her breasts in short order, and she couldn't help but let out a small whimper. He didn't scold her, so she assumed that it was within the rules.

"Oh... and a nice flash of pink satin. A bit naughty for you, isn't it?"

He leaned forward, careful to leave her on the end of his knee, his lips coming daringly close to her ear as he kneaded her nipples through the delicate lace.

"Do you like to be naughty, Molly?"

Again she nodded, wanting so badly to turn around and see his face. She was well-versed in the fantasy of his lustful gaze, but when it was right behind her in reality, she was having quite a difficult time not sneaking a peek.

"Stand up and remove your dress. Don't turn round."

Molly couldn't have jumped up more quickly, shimmying her hips to rid herself of the garment as quickly as possible.

"Patience... slowly..." he countered, his hands quickly covering her hips and stopping her from pulling it down. "Allow me..."

He slowly slid the dress down, allowing it to fall to the floor to reveal her matching knickers and suspender belt. She was wearing thigh high stockings tonight at Anastasia's urging. She began to work at the belt when Sherlock grabbed her hand.

"Oh, Christ, Molly. Don't touch those. Leave them on. You are perfectly naughty like this. And the shoes too. And the stockings. _Christ_..."

Sherlock's short bursts of thought made Molly smile beneath his scarf. Was the great Sherlock Holmes coming undone by the sight of her lace covered bottom?

"Come here," he growled, grasping her by the elbows and easing her back down onto his lap, this time further back onto him. Molly could feel the hard line of his cock through the thin cotton of his lounge trousers, slightly shocked at the animal reaction he had to her underthings.

He slid his hands down her thighs to the top of her stockings, pushing her knees together on top of his. He lifted her legs slightly, forcing his between them. Then, he spread his legs apart, holding hers open with his own.

His lips were at her ear the very next moment.

"Put your hands on my knees. If you want to say yes, squeeze the right one. If no, the left. Understand?"

She nodded eagerly and squeezed his right knee.

"Molly," he grunted, his fingers running along her stomach and his legs spreading hers further apart. "Do you know how badly I want to have you right now? I want all of you. And then I want some more. I'm a very selfish man, as you well know..."

His hand slid below the waistband of her knickers and he let out a soft hum.

"So wet for me. You like when I say filthy things in your ear, don't you..."

She gave his right knee a squeeze and a caress.

He slid a finger down into her folds, circling her clit before returning his mouth to her other ear.

"You want me to touch you, Molly? You want me to fuck you with my fingers?"

She was squeezing desperately at his right knee before he'd finished his sentence. He pressed two long fingers into her, her head falling back onto his shoulder and a cry escaping from beneath her makeshift gag.

"Do you want me to stop?"

There was a playfulness in his voice that was new to her. She swotted his left knee before squeezing it. He began to work at her in earnest; each time he pushed his fingers into her warmth she'd scoot back further onto his lap.

"Oh God... I don't want to stop either because if I do, you'll stop doing that..."

He grabbed her hip with his free hand, pulling her back onto him as he thrust into her lacy knickers. His insistent panting in her ear was driving her mad as her ass rubbed at his cock through his pyjama trousers.

His pants turned into soft moans in her ear.

"Molly... oh... that feels... Christ, yes..."

He removed his hand from between her legs and splayed his fingers over her breasts, pushing the cups up over them as he pinched her nipples.

Crying out, he bit down softly on her shoulder and he came through his trousers, a wet spot gathering against her lower back.

He was once again panting in her ear, his breath coming out in short hard gasps.

"Jesus, Molly. I'm sorry... I... I don't know what that was... well, I do know what it was... I just... Christ. You made me lose control. It was... _fucking_ _glorious_..."

Molly reached back, her hands making short work of the knot on his scarf. She dropped it to the floor and placed her hands over his, still clutching at her breasts.

"I know I'm not to speak, but I can't wait to say this any longer.". Molly felt freer now than she ever had around him, and suspected this was his plan all along. "I'm yours. Oh God... please just... I want you to possess me. I want you to _own_ me, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the fun really begins...


	7. The Five Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock play a simple game of genius...

Sherlock rose from his chair, lifting Molly as he stood.

"You want me to _own_ you, Molly? What gives you the idea that I don't already?" he quipped, setting her down on the rug in front of John's chair and reaching down to pluck the scarf from her hands.

She glared at him, her chest still heaving. She rather wanted to slap him, but she was too tightly wound to be that offended. He may have found his release, but she had yet to find hers. Molly supposed she did owe him after last night - but what had he done after he left? She remembered him hard against her thigh - that was still very vivid in her mind, what it was like to feel him for the first time. Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably somehow just willed his erection away and got on with his evening...

She gave him an awkward, lopsided grin as she adjusted her the cups of her bra and pulled them back down over her breasts. Her glance darted quickly to the crumpled dress which lay at her feet. His silver eyes narrowed, the tender blush on his cheeks abating as he stared at her, that telltale analytical look crossing his face.

"I'm not expecting that you leave. To the contrary - I'm not quite finished playing with my... _possession_. I need to make use of the shower," he stated quite matter-of-factly as he brushed the front of his pyjamas, making a crude, embarrassed face at the stain which had formed.

God damn him for being so maddeningly endearing. Sergeant Donovan was right; he really could get away with murder if he so chose to.

He looked at her quickly, beckoning her with a single finger before striding confidently down the hallway. His silk blue striped dressing gown billowed behind him and reminded Molly of the way his Belstaff curled around him as he walked.

Following him into his bedroom, Molly felt as though she was privy to some kind of hidden secret - she imagined not many people had seen Sherlock's inner sanctum. His wooden sleigh bed was made up impeccably, looking more like a hotel room than a bedroom. Looking around at his walls she spotted a Chinese symbol painting hanging over the headboard, an elegantly framed periodic table of the elements and a portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. In the corner was a lit curio cabinet containing an array of antiquities and curiosities, including a display of crude Victorian-era taxidermied butterflies.

Peculiar decorating - but fitting for an extraordinary man.

"Go on then," he gestured to his bed. A mountain of pillows topped the bedclothes. She hopped up onto the mattress, her near naked form encountering a big, soft sea-green duvet and pale beige sheets with what she naturally assumed was a far higher thread count than hers.

He shucked his dressing gown into the nearby laundry basket and tossed his scarf casually on the bed next to her.

"When you hear the water stop, I want you to fashion a blindfold with this and lie down on your back and wait for me. No peeking - I'll know..." he commanded, and turned on his heel toward the bathroom. He offered her a small glimpse of his skin as he began to remove his grey tshirt before closing the door behind him.

Molly lay back on the bed and sucked in a deep breath. She still hadn't seen him fully unclothed. Sure, she'd patched him up countless times, changed his bandages enough after the fall, but to see all of him, naked out of desire rather than necessity with the inevitable outcome of...

Of what? He still hadn't even kissed her for Christ's sake. Regardless of her words a few minutes ago while she was still on the cusp of a quite memorable orgasm, part of her brain still hadn't agreed to this - whatever _this_ was.

Sherlock had become a good friend over the last few difficult years, but his feelings were still largely an enigma to her - even now. There was no doubt he was a passionate man who held a fierce loyalty to few. And now, she was starting to see the other side of that passion.

Molly knew that beneath that wiry exterior lurked a deceptively strong man. He'd already told her he wanted all of her, and that he was a very selfish man. Coupled with the knowledge that he could overpower her in seconds, she had to admit - he still frightened her just a little bit.

It took an awfully strong woman to please Sherlock Holmes. Was she ready and willing to be that woman? She'd never doubted herself before, she'd always had a fighting, uncompromising spirit. What was it about him that made her question her ability to speak or her ability to truly tell him that he was a rude, arrogant arsehole when he deserved it?

She tied the scarf carefully around her eyes and lay in wait. He would surely scold her if she didn't take care to ensure she was unable to see a thing.

She heard the snick of the bathroom door as Sherlock emerged. It was funny how one sense was heightened when another was removed; Molly's nose was suddenly assaulted by the clean scent of Sherlock's shampoo and the fresh fragrance of his soap - the undertones of something more decidedly him lurking at the edges. She bit her lower lip, imagining his damp curls and the glistening drops of water on his throat. Was he partially clothed? In a towel? Nude? He knew exactly what he was doing to her, making her ask herself exactly that.

His weight settled onto the bed next to her. A finger traced her collarbone and she emitted a sigh. A finger turned into a hand, caressing her side before running slowly down her arm, his fingers circling her wrist. Molly opened her mouth and her lips quivered, imagining his lips meeting hers.

She wanted to pull off the blindfold and drag him down to her, slide her tongue against his and moan words of desire and affection into his mouth.

"Touch me, Molly," he said lowly, lifting her hand and placing it on his cheek, his voice quashing her wayward thoughts in an instant. "Wherever you'd like... but more importantly, where _I'd_ like..."

She sucked in a breath. Her hand moved to trace his cheekbone, fingers trailing over his jaw and thumb dragging against the soft warmth of his lower lip. Her other hand found the hollow of his throat, expecting to find droplets of water where there were none. Continuing lower, fingers explored the hard plane of his chest, lingering there as her other hand joined in. She found the firm bud of one of his nipples, tracing circles around it with her nail, enjoying his sharp intake of breath as she continued.

Molly braced her other hand on his shoulder, pulling herself up to a sitting position. She leaned forward, her lips touching his collarbone before following her hand, taking his nipple between her teeth and her tongue darting out to taste his skin. If he was going to tease her, she would play that game too.

And she wanted to best him at it.

He shifted beneath her, a small grunt escaping as he placed his hand gently on the back of her head, his fingers lacing into her hair.

She took a quick memo, finding something Sherlock liked.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, continuing to lave his chest with small, nipping kisses. "I want to see you..."

"Ah, right on point. Women _are_ more visual than they'd have you believe..."

"Is this an experiment to you?" Molly snapped.

"It might be. But are you enjoying it?"

"Yes, but..."

She could hear his grin, the git.

Exasperated, she drew her attention away from his chest, sitting back on her heels. His hands were around her wrists in seconds.

"Molly."

Her name was an order, two syllables in that deep yet slightly wavering voice which sent a jolt right between her legs. This was Sherlock Holmes. Presumably naked in his bed, demanding she touch him to find out.

" _Do_ carry on," he smirked. "And no, you cannot remove the scarf."

_Sherlock 1, Molly nil._

He placed her hands back against his skin, this time pressing them against his abdomen. He released them slowly, his eyes pinning her in place. She relented, smoothing over his skin with her hands. She took her time there, alternating small circles with her thumb and wide brushes with her fingers. She touched his sides and moved her hands to his back, her nails scraping a light trail down his spine before resuming her caresses on his chest and stomach.

She then felt emboldened enough to move them lower, expecting somehow to find the waistband of his pants, but instead finding the dip of his belly button and the soft trail of hair below it.

"Oh, God, Sherlock..." Molly exhaled, knowing what she'd find just an inch lower. He grabbed a single wrist again.

"Yes, you may..." he invited, but the way he barked it out clippedly and placed her hand on his cock, it felt much more like a demand.

Her digits ran slowly down his shaft, feeling it twitch under her touch; he was already partially hard. She heard him expel a quick breath as her hand found the base, her fingers circling it as she tightened her grip before pulling it back up to the tip. Suddenly, hearing became her predominant sense as she was finely attuned to every grunt and noise that escaped him, until her hand worked him to full attention and his breath was coming out in small, short pants.

To stroke Sherlock like this without seeing his face was also sending her sense of touch into overdrive, the sounds of his approval making her want to please him even more. She returned her hands to his shoulders and eased him down onto the bed next to her. Her lips found his neck and she kissed her way slowly down his chest, lingering over the scar from the bullet he'd taken. She paused painfully at the thought that she'd almost lost him, but he took away her anguish when his hands met her shoulder blades, pulling her breasts to his chest as he arched against her.

"Molly, don't," he whispered, knowing exactly what she was thinking. She pursed her lips stoicly before continuing, her hand grasping him again before she leaned down to take his cock into her mouth.

And everything unsaid was forgotten in an instant.

"Oh, dear God, Molly - that's it. God, your mouth..."

Molly cursed his bloody scarf. What she wouldn't give to see his face as she pleasured him!

The act usually did not bring her much satisfaction - she always thought it to be rather one-sided - but hearing Sherlock whimper and swear and thrash beneath her was a triumph of immeasurable proportions.

_Match even, one all._

"I'm going to.... oh fuck..." his breath slid through his teeth. "Will you, oh! Taste me, Molly... "

His hips thrust slightly to meet her mouth and his fingers began pulling not-quite-so-gently at her hair.

Molly moved her free hand to his right knee, squeezing it assuredly.

Yes. _YES_. _Permission_.

Only seconds later he spilled into her mouth, a loud groan escaping his treacherous lips. She was quite positive she already knew what his orgasm face looked like - it would surely be the same face he made when he had a breakthrough on a case (but only one 8 or higher). As she swallowed him down she could see his face in her mind's eye, his eyelashes fanned above those edgy cheekbones and those cupid lips forming a big, perfect, round O.

"Oh God, Molly, it's Christmas..." he breathed when he could form words again.

He pulled her up to him, quickly removing the blindfold. Her eyes blinked in the dim light of his bedside lamp and he pulled her possessively to his side, her head against his chest and his fingers clutching absently at her hair. He pulled the duvet over the both of them.

"Stay, Molly."

It was not a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will he ever kiss her? Git, indeed.


	8. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly uncovers Sherlock's kink. But is she any closer to uncovering Sherlock?

Sherlock Holmes found himself staring at his reflection as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, Molly Hooper snoring softly in his bedroom. He'd retreated to a hot, cleansing shower as soon as he'd heard her breathing become heavy with sleep, easing her onto his pillow while he wordlessly left the bed. He'd dressed again in his black trousers and aubergine shirt while she'd napped, not giving her the chance to see him unclothed.

Feelings. Sentiment. Sherlock could feel both emanating from Molly Hooper's skin every time he touched her. She was getting too close. Too soon.

It shouldn't have surprised him; her brain had flooded with oxytocin after he'd blessed her with multiple orgasms. The research was indisputable that women produced more of this hormone than men, so his resistance was much higher than hers, given that fact alone. Of course any such feelings could be easily overcome on his part, but it was the very reason that women were more likely to fall in love with a man after sex.

What was he playing at, really, when it was undeniable that she'd already fallen in love with him well before they'd even begun?

Yet such matters couldn't be leant credence to cloud his thoughts. It wasn't going to be like _that_ between them - not at all. He had to bring things back to the beginning now that he'd earned her trust. He would need to set down some rules. The level of play they'd engaged in thus far was quite run of the mill, and he'd refrained quite purposefully from kissing her and... _cuddling_ her (his nose wrinkled at the thought). However, if this was all to be followed with what he really wanted from her - which would likely include penetrative intercourse - he would have to ensure that he was there to provide her with appropriate aftercare. Which would include, amongst other things, kissing, cuddling, and.... _talking_.

"We will need to choose a safeword, Molly," he barked as he emerged from the bathroom, rousing her unceremoniously from her sleep.

She popped up quickly from his pillow, rubbing her eyes and pulling her hair back from her face.

"Sherlock, you're dressed... I..."

"Of course I am," he replied, annoyed and puzzled at her observation.

"Do pay attention, Molly. A safeword..." he continued without skipping a beat. "I'm sure you are well aware of the meaning and usage of the term? The term itself is quite vanilla, but the activities surrounding it can often be... quite the opposite."

"I am well aware, Sherlock," Molly answered, drawing the sheets up to her shoulders as she sat up and faced him.

"How about _knickerbocker_?"

Molly giggled.

"But what if I say ' _take off my knickers_ ' when my face is muffled into a pillow and you mishear it? Especially if I don't want you to stop..."

He could easily picture several scenarios in which her face might be muffled into a pillow...

"Too true, Molly. How about _omnibus_."

"Both interesting choices, Sherlock. I can't imagine using the word omnibus, so omnibus it shall be."

By now he was starting to wonder if she would ever catch the subtle hints he'd been leaving her. His choice of safeword. His knowledge of the Albert Works. His portrait of Poe. His butterfly collection... but Molly Hooper was nothing if not overtly perceptive, sometimes able to read him when no one else could. Shame it didn't work for her on Jim Moriarty, but that was something else entirely.

"How did you know I read Victorian romance novels?"

"Oh, I just assumed," he smirked, nearly ecstatic that she'd finally caught on. "It is a rather common female fantasy... hence the wild success of all these BBC costume dramas. Period dramas largely target female audiences and they prey upon a need for pure nostalgia and a history that never was. One that is simpler, more appealing, and one without consequences. It imprints contemporary values onto an imagined past to suggest that the problems of today were much more easily solved during those times. Which is complete _dross_.”

Sherlock had always been drawn to the darker side of the time period, and what Molly didn't know, yet, was that he had developed quite a kink for it. Thoughts of very proper ladies tightly bound in corsets, submitting by day to very powerful men. The same men just as likely by night to have hot, hard, nameless sex against the bricks in cobbled alleyways with unfortunate women.

And then, his very favourite. The literature that no one talked about. It included absolutely nothing penned by Charles Dickens. These were the books that Sherlock Holmes kept under lock and key in the drawer at the bottom of his curio cabinet. The _Autobiography Of A Flea_. _The Mysteries Of Verbena House. The Whippingham Papers._ Oh, most especially that last one. He sat quickly on the edge of the bed, not wanting Molly to notice that his cock went a bit hard at the remembrance.

He purposefully refrained from telling her the tale of Gropecunt Lane... which really wasn't a tale at all. In truth it was a popular Medieval English street name for laneways which were well-known for prostitution. He decided to sway the conversation in a more sordid direction by choosing the less vulgar Victorian option, curious to see what she'd say. It had fallen out of favour by Victorian times, but it still excited Sherlock to imagine unbinding a woman from her restrictive corset, lifting her skirts in a gaslit back street.

"Did you know, that so many people in 1830 complained about Petticoat Lane being named after an item of underwear that it was renamed to Middlesex Street? It was often misinterpreted as related to prostitution. Which is such a lark!"

"What do you mean? It doesn't surprise me in the least... after all they did cover their piano legs because they thought them to be too suggestive."

"Oh, Molly. That's where you're wrong. That's a myth of literary origin. It was actually the Victorians who scoffed at the Americans for being so prudish. It was Captain Frederick Marryat - an acquaintance of Charles Dickens - who wrote that American women disapproved of the word ‘leg’ and insisted that ‘limb’ be used instead. He also retold the story about Americans covering piano legs because they were suggestive of naked human legs – but it seems that the American lady he spoke to had spun quite a yarn, seeing her opportunity to fool a naive English tourist. In truth, the Victorians were up to all kinds of sordid things. Filthy things, Molly. And they wrote about them quite extensively, if one knows where to look. It seems a subject that you could be... _enlightened_ on."

Molly looked on, stunned at his extensive knowledge about yet another peculiar subject. Exactly the reaction he was looking for.

"You know many things, Sherlock."

"That I do, Molly. But I tend not to discuss them at length unless they hold a particular interest."

"So you hold a... particular interest in Victorian erotica, I'm to assume?"

"Why, yes. Very particular."

He hopped from the bed, careful not to turn toward her in his aroused state, even though his erection had nearly faded.

Removing a key from his pocket, Sherlock opened the drawer where he kept his special books. He plucked out a copy of _Venus In Furs_ , handing it to Molly over his shoulder, who leaned forward to retrieve it.

"Not written by an English author, but still quite popular in certain circles, nonetheless. 1870. And it's a first edition, so do be careful with it."

He sat back on the end of the bed and watched Molly as she turned the book over in her hands, intrigued.

"You may borrow it," he encouraged her with a glance. "Within, you might find some inspiration."

Molly opened the book to a random page and read aloud:

_If only she would use the whip again. There is something uncanny in the kindness with which she treats me. I seem like a little captive mouse with which a beautiful cat prettily plays. She is ready at any moment to tear it to pieces, and my heart of a mouse threatens to burst._

Sherlock tried his best not to visibly shudder as she read the passage. When she finished, the book was lowered gently to her lap, and an eyebrow raised.

"A little captive mouse, Sherlock?"

"Well I... I of course would be the cat, Molly. _Meow_."

"Of course..."

He leaned forward, removing the book from her grasp and placing it on the bedside table.

"I'll be just a minute."

He sprang from the bed, coincidentally catlike, and left the room. He returned in short order with a long pink box that Molly recognised immediately.

"Sherlock... how did you..."

"Anastasia and I are acquaintances. I of course chose your dress, and your underthings. And she also told me that this particular item garnered special interest from you."

"Sherlock! I wanted it to be my decision... what I bought..."

He laughed as he removed the crystal tipped whip from the box, turning it before him and allowing it to catch the light.

"Oh Molly don't be so naive. This is about what * _I_ * want." He brought the whip down onto his open hand with a snick. "And in that, you will find your own pleasure, I will assure you. You did, after all, tell me that you wanted me to own you..."

_snick_

_snick_

_snick_

She flinched at the sound, her mouth threatening to retaliate but her tongue frozen in submission, just as he intended.

"Tonight I will be on the... gentle side," Sherlock continued, playfully tapping the leather against his palm as he spoke. "I've already surely deduced what you want from me. But if you... if _we_ want more, we are going to have to come up with an arrangement. Sketch out each others boundaries as it were. I want you to know that I will want... quite a bit more out of you. And some of it might push your boundaries a bit. It will require a lot of... imagination on your part, and... role play. Does any of this... worry you?"

"No... I..."

"You've answered far too quickly. You might have already guessed that I don't like seeing you snivel, Molly. I want you to feel strong enough and confident enough to let me dominate you. I'm not at all interested in masquerading as a dominant to find a weak minded woman I can control. I'm much more interested in controlling someone with a mind of her own - just to prove that I can. I am seeking an opposite, yet an equal."

It was now up to Molly to find the confidence in herself to please him - he'd dropped enough hints by now. He'd made it quite clear to her that he wasn't fond of her indecisiveness and shyness - she was a stronger woman than that - it was almost embarrassing whenever she crumbled in front of him. He wanted the woman who slapped him when she found evidence of drug use - not the woman who removed her lipstick because he declined her invitation to coffee.

It was only a small dose of opiates - enough to give him that vacant stare that he required to convince the dealers he was an addict. Molly had done enough piss tests on him since that case to know that he'd stayed true to his word.

"Sherlock, I'm ready."

She met his gaze decidedly, reaching out to run her hand down his back.

He laid the whip down on the bed next to him, his fingers moving to roll up his shirt sleeves as she watched intently.

"I'm going to spank you now, Molly," he told her, moving up onto the bed with his back against the headboard and quickly spreading Molly out over his lap. "I'll be gentle at first, and then there will be pain. Give me that safe word if you wish me to continue..."

" _Omnibus_..." she whispered in one quick breath. His fingers tugged at her lacy knickers, sliding slowly over the curve of her arse as he pulled them just below her pale cheeks. He rubbed the skin there softly, warming it as he went.

"Do try to relax..." he whispered. "Remember your word if you wish me to stop."

"Yes. Yes, Sherlock. Please continue."

At once he doled out a hard slap with a cupped hand. As his hand met her skin she tensed against him, grinding her centre into his lap.

" _Molly_ ," he breathed as he shifted beneath her, rubbing her gently where he'd struck her.

She squirmed above him as he gave her two more slaps in short order, the last one with his full hand, creating a blazing red handprint on her arse.

He dipped a finger between her legs, finding her wet.

"Oh, that's a good girl. _Very_ good, Miss Molly." He slowly pulled her knickers down and off her legs, dropping them to the hardwood floor.

He brought his hand down again, his fingers splayed this time as he slapped her arse several times in quick succession. She ground herself against his rapidly hardening cock, a moan escaping her lips while he pressed his together, trying to keep from coming undone beneath her.

Another dip into her wetness with his other hand - which was now considerable. Molly was breathing in gasps, the look on her face rather bemused over how much she liked being spanked.

"Ah, good girl. You've not had anyone do this before in this manner."

"No, but it feels..."

"You like when I hurt you."

She nodded eagerly, still panting.

He lifted the crop from the bed next to him.

"Are you ready, Molly?"

His cock twitched beneath her.

"Yes. Yes _please_..."

He smacked her bottom repeatedly in short order, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting, bringing tears to the corners of her doe-brown eyes. His large hands covered her cheeks, rubbing away the red-hot burn the crop left in its wake.

"Stand up, Molly... can you," he managed, his voice escaping in a low whisper.  

Wordlessly she stood in front of him, the tears running down her cheeks as she met his eyes. He studied her reflection in his bedroom mirror, watching raptly as the bright red stripes began to reveal themselves on her pale skin.

"The word, Mo.."

" _Omnibus_!" she cut him off before he could finish.

He tapped the crop lightly on his thigh, a small smile threatening to cross his lips.

"Come here," he beckoned, taking her hand and coaxing her toward him. He closed his legs and drew her flush against his knees. Knowing what he wanted, she put one knee down beside him on the bed as he lifted her over him, bringing her other knee up to straddle him. His hands moved to cup her bottom, pulling her centre toward his, twin signs escaping from their lips. Quickly, Molly's hands moved to his curls, pulling his head against her breasts.

"Please, Sherlock. Know it's fine. I'm fine... just a little overwhelmed at how much...I didn't know how much I'd like..."

Before she could continue, the crop was licking at her skin again, her body pressing further into his at each strike. His cock was unbearably hard now, he was going to come any moment from her rhythmic grinding, which he was orchestrating with the crop like he was conducting his own erotic symphony.

His lips nipped at her collarbone, a moan escaping her lips as he ceased his spanking and the crop fell to the hardwood floor with a thud. Again his hands cupped her bottom, pulling her against him as she rode out her orgasm, her fingers pulling at his hair as she whispered his name.

His followed shortly thereafter, ruining another perfectly good pair of trousers.

It wasn't a surprise that Molly woke up alone - it was that she woke up wearing his aubergine shirt.

She _was_ his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sequel on the way which you Victorian-era Sherlolliers will love... Lord Holmes indeed, with a side of resolution and Sherlock. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for your comments, kudos and overwhelming response. As this is my first fic you've inspired me to keep going!


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